Page 19 of Never a Duchess
Dounreay laughed. “The temperatures in England are almost tropical.” He gestured to the sable muff that hid her trembling hands. “Are ye off on an Arctic adventure?”
“I feel the cold terribly.” It was a slight exaggeration, but she had to make herself sound unappealing. “I would hate to live in a draughty castle in the Highlands.”
Dounreay leaned closer, a rakish lock falling over his brow. “We keep the fires burning. It’s so hot in my chamber I sleep without clothes.”
She quickly banished a vision of him strutting about naked.
This blackguard enjoyed teasing her to distraction.
“Your habits are the topic of conversation in every ladies’ retiring room, Your Grace. Still, you consider a hardy constitution an asset in a wife.”
Mischief twinkled in his eyes. “Aye, so I might chase her over brook and glen and tumble her amid the heather.”
Lillian’s breath caught in her throat.
The picture he painted touched a secret place deep in her chest.
“You have too many responsibilities to spend your time frolicking.”
“On my oath, if I loved a woman, I would spend my life making her happy.” His intense dark eyes held hers for a heartbeat too long.
Coherent thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind.
Until a velvet voice she knew broke the spell. “Should we bring chairs and sit beneath the portico?” Mr Sloane said, amused. “Or will you come inside and discuss the case?”
Dounreay stepped back and inclined his head. “We were examining the night sky. ’Tis beautiful out tonight.”
Being anything but pretentious, the duke did not draw attention to Mr Sloane’s lack of reference to his title.
Mr Sloane laughed. “The heavens are more beautiful when reflected in a woman’s eyes, eh, Dounreay?” He gestured to the candlelit hall behind him. “Come, we’ve warm punch waiting. My wife has made a special concoction to chase away the cold.”
Dounreay guided her forward and whispered, “Why do I get the impression we’ll struggle to stand after a few sips?”
Lillian laughed. “Mr Sloane can take his liquor. You would be wise to limit your consumption. But you must be accustomed to downing a dram or two yourself.”
“To cope with the bitter Scottish weather?”
“Aye,” she teased.
Dounreay waited for her while she handed the footman her outdoor apparel. They followed Mr Sloane into the drawing room, an inviting space with burnt sienna walls, gilt-framed paintings and a vibrant Persian rug.
Mr Daventry occupied a seat next to the hearth, though he stood when he saw them. “Your Grace. Miss Ware.”
“Mr Daventry? I did not expect you to attend the meeting.” Mr Sloane must have thought the matter grave enough to seek his employer’s counsel. “I’m sure we witnessed nothing more than a lovers’ quarrel. I hate to trouble you when you’re so busy solving crimes.”
Mr Daventry’s gaze shifted to the duke. “Dounreay visited the Hart Street office this morning to express his concern over the incident. He said you sought professional help.”
“That is what we agreed, Miss Ware,” the duke added.
“Yes. I’m merely surprised you acted so quickly. I didn’t know you were acquainted.” That said, Mr Daventry made it his business to know everyone in theton.
Mr Daventry laughed. “I introduced myself to Dounreay many years ago, soon after he inherited.”
It made sense. Mr Daventry was a duke’s son, too, albeit illegitimate. Still, disappointment lodged like a brick in her chest. He would take charge, putting paid to her hopes of tackling the investigation herself.
“Doubtless, you have already made enquiries at the docks,” she said, keen to learn whether they had found the poor woman.
“There are twenty dockworkers with the surname O’Malley. We need to focus on other lines of enquiry. Hence why I want to hear the story from the beginning.”
